


Stitches

by Wishme



Series: 30 Day OTP Challenge [9]
Category: Supernatural
Genre: Fallen Castiel, Hunting, Hurt/Comfort, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-06-16
Updated: 2013-06-16
Packaged: 2017-12-15 03:00:54
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,316
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/844542
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Wishme/pseuds/Wishme
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Cas gets hurt during a hunt for the first time after he falls</p><p>[warning for some slight gore/medical stuff]</p>
            </blockquote>





	Stitches

Cas had been so doing well Dean nearly forgot that it had only been a few weeks since he’d been “decommissioned” by Metatron. Sure, there were some things to get used to, but overall the former angel had been dealing with it well. He had his bad nights, turning up in Dean’s room shaking inconsolably from dreams he wouldn’t speak of, burrowing into Dean’s side until he fell asleep leaving the hunter to stare blankly into the dark, a deep ache in his chest. But those were increasingly rare. Cas had demanded to be brought on their hunts after the first week when most of his injures had healed to yellowing bruises and the brothers couldn’t deny that he was a huge help. The witches hadn’t been expecting a trio, so they’d at least had an element of surprise. He fit seamlessly into their fighting patterns on the following hunts, as if he’d always been there.

 

So, it comes as a surprise when the vamp gets him. Dean finishes with one of the sons-of-bitches when he sees his friend go down from a vicious backhand. The hunter finds himself across the room, a snarling vampire beneath him. Apparently he’d managed to tackle him from across the room. Making a note to congratulate that feat of strength later, Dean rolls off the vamp and ends the struggle with the downswing of a machete. He yells the all-clear signal to Sam who had taken off down the hall and gets the confirmation return.  Tossing the machete aside, he kneel down to roll the angel over, grimacing at the vestiges of gore his hand left on the tan coat.  Cas groans and tries to sit up, but the hunter’s hand on his chest keep him down as Dean does a cursory check for injuries. Nothing major seems to be wrong, just a mess of bruises and split skin, maybe a concussion, but no tourniquets required. He hauls his friend up off the floor, slinging the angel’s arm over his shoulders and bundles him off to the Impala. Sam starts forward to help, but Dean waves him off, “Just get the door.”

 

Back in the bunker they stagger into the bathroom, Sam bringing up the rear with the medical supplies. He drop is and nods to Dean, heading to his own room to shower off the actual ton of dirt they’d managed to drag back with them. Cas is awake, but his eyes are pinched shut in the fluorescent light—definitely a concussion, probably from the bruise radiating out from his left temple. Dean helps the angel out of his jacket and eases the shirt over his head, Cas hissing when the collar drags over his split lip. Blue eyes glower at the hunter when the shirt is clear, as if Dean had done it on purpose, but Dean’s more worried about their glassiness than the cranky expression on his friend’s face.

 

Gripping the angel’s chin gently, he angles his friend’s face into the light. The split lip has already started to scab over, but the gash on the cheekbone and one on the chest need stitches. After scrubbing his hands clean he preps a pad with iodine, dabbing at the wounds, clucking softly when Cas’s breath hisses through his teeth. “You got yourself good this time, buddy,” Dean teases, reaching back to grab ice to press against the wound on his cheek. “Hold that,” he instructs, stepping back to snap on some gloves and prep the sutures. This is rote, he’s done this a hundred times: for his dad, for Sam, for himself. He’s held curved instruments like it before, torn into souls with them—it’s odd that the smallest of these helps instead of hurts. “Dean,” Cas growls, startling him back into himself and away from the memories of dried blood and panic. Shaking the images out of his head, he turns back to the angel, pale under the light. The guy needs to get vertical, and fast, but first things first.

Gently, he pulls the ice away from Cas’s face. He looks his friend in the eyes and says, “I’m sorry, this is going to hurt.” Cas’s lips kick up at the corners and he replies, “It already hurts. But,” he reaches out to squeeze Dean’s free hand, “it is alright.”

 

He takes a deep breath and begins: the first stitch is always the worst. Dean works methodically, the flow of the sutures calming, keeping him detached from the fact that this is _Cas_ under his needle. Cas is supposed to be impenetrable and it shook Dean more than he cared to admit when he saw his friend go down. Tying off the last needle he offers the angel a sip of whiskey to dull the pain a bit more, but the angel shakes his head, “Just finish it.”

 

Gritting his teeth he starts on the larger gash, betadine to clean, hooking a new length of silk into the flesh. The rise and fall of the other man’s chest is calming. If he looks up Dean knows he’ll see a clenched jaw, shuttered eyes, but his breath is controlled. Dean wraps it up as quickly as possible—a lucky seven sutures did the job. He’ll have to remind Cas about keeping it clean, but that can wait until the morning. The hunter stands up, his back protesting, knees aching, and packs up the med kit. He gathers up the angel and makes his way towards the bed. Cas rolls his face into Dean’s neck, “I’m sorry.”

 

Dean huffs a laugh, “Nothing to be sorry for. I’m sorry you had to deal with my butchering skills.”

 

Cas digs his heels into the ground, jolting them to a stop, “No. I’m sorry, Dean. This body is still so weak and _slow_. I’m sorry to be another thing for you to worry about.”

 

“What? No, Cas,” _Shit_. “Man, we all get beat up some days. You’ve seen me, hell, you _made_ me. You know I’ve been on the wrong side of a knife or a bullet a time or two. It happens.”

 

“Not to me,” Cas grinds out. “Angels don’t tear like this. These limbs, I…” He lifts his hands up, “they don’t work like they used to. My mind knows the moves to make, the most efficient takedown, but the muscles are slow. They are so _slow_ , Dean. Like moving through molasses.”

 

He slumps against the hunter who uses the moment to shove him through the door and onto the bed. Dean leans down to unlace his friend’s boots. “It takes time.,” he says softly. “I’m not comparing your experience to mine, but,” he exhales sharply, “it’s hard. It’ll take time, but Cas, man; we’re here for you. Let us know when we’re pushing too hard, we can take it. We don’t expect you to be all smitey, we just want you to be ok.”

 

Cas’s draws his eyebrows together as Dean sets his boots aside and helps him with his belt. Between the two of them they get Cas down to his boxer briefs and tucked under the covers. Dean hands the angel two aspirin. He takes them wordlessly, swallowing down the glass of water in one go. The dark head leans back against the headboard, eyes closed. As the hunter pulls away, a slim hand rests on his forearm, “Thank you, Dean. “ The hunter covers the hand with his own and squeezes, before reaching over to pull the armchair close to the bed. He throws his jacket over the back, toes his boots off and settles his feet on the bed, his heels brushing the angel’s calves. Cas opens his eyes, looking at him impassively. The hunter just grunts, “You have a concussion. I’m going to wake you up a few times just in case.” The angel smiles. Dean rolls his eyes and flicks off the light, 


End file.
